


The Widening Gyre

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Child Death, Child Neglect, Child Soldiers, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Genocide, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Prequel, Religious Conflict, The Thalmor Suck, Torture, Violence, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 06:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20634560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: The Great War is over but in its ashes lie the seeds of future conflict.The Shieldmaiden, the assassin, the warrior and the child. Broken, lost, betrayed and abandoned.Even the gods will tremble at the storm presaged by these first few drops.





	The Widening Gyre

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child soldiers, child abuse and mentions of genocide, torture, child abandonment and child death. Working on the new ‘canon’ for the Aurelii.

There was smoke staining the ice-blue skies above the Jeralls and the scent of more than burnt wood on the breeze. Sigdrifa Stormsword held up her hand to halt the small party following her. Most were wounded from imprisonment and battle, only Skjor and herself uninjured. Three would never serve as active Blades again. One may have been rendered permanently mute after overusing his Voice during the escape from the Thalmor facility. Four survivors of a prison that held over seventy cells. It didn’t bode well for the Dominion’s ultimate intentions for humanity if the final push at the Imperial City failed.

The Grandmaster of the Blades had been reluctant to allow Sigdrifa to go on this critical mission but after the capture of Irkand by the Dominion and loss of contact with Rustem on the Hammerfell front, there was no one else he could spare. Arius Aurelius was more frightened of his senior Blades like Delphine and even the unambitious Esbern than he was of the Shieldmaiden reluctantly married to his son. It just went to show he knew nothing of the Shieldmaidens and their creed.

“I’ll go ahead,” Skjor offered gruffly. “A Legion officer won’t be out of place on the roads unless County Bruma’s utterly fallen to the Thalmor but a woman in totemic plate will be.”

Sigdrifa nodded tightly. Skjor was a Praetor from the Rift whose pragmatism was almost like a Shieldmaiden’s. He couldn’t quite manage the detachment she possessed, but he was capable of making the necessary calculations to ensure maximum survival. They’d had to leave two prisoners behind because they couldn’t keep up. It was Skjor who gave them a dagger each so they could die with a weapon in their hand as was proper. She’d have preferred he didn’t.

The hefty Rifter melted into the pine trees that lined the switchback roads of County Bruma. Sigdrifa turned to the other four and saw that Lavinia had collapsed, overcome by the pain of her wounds. Ulfric was pressing a poultice to the worst of them in vain; Lavinia would die very soon.

“Let her go,” Sigdrifa said as gently as she could manage. “She won’t survive to reach Bruma, let alone Cloud Ruler Temple.”

Ulfric gave her a rebellious glare with those broken bottle-green eyes. The Thalmor, if they hadn’t broken, had severely cracked the only son of Jarl Hoag Stormcloak of Windhelm. Arius wanted him saved because their Tongue had deserted two months ago. Sigdrifa wished she’d known he was leaving; she’d have joined him.

On paper, the Stormsword was Arius’ daughter-in-law, the Shieldmaiden of Talos’ liaison to the Blades and mother to the man’s only granddaughter. In reality, she was a hostage and an intended puppet-ruler of Falkreath now her brothers were dead in some futile quest. Arius was of the opinion all would fall into place as he desired it. He hadn’t figured out that Rustem had abandoned the Blades on the excuse of helping the war effort in Hammerfell and that the only obedient child he had was probably a head on Lord Naarifin’s wall. It was a shame about Irkand, she had to admit. The man had several admirable qualities.

_We’d have made a better match of it than Rustem and I,_ Sigdrifa mused as she handed around the waterskin for the survivors to drink. Irkand was quiet, competent and not inclined to moral considerations when it came to the greater good; his lack of ambition would have been balanced by her desire to lead for the sake of Talos. She might have been sent from the Shieldmaidens by the High-Mother to serve in the Blades but Sigdrifa still lived by the code as much was possible.

Rustem… was everything she’d grown to despise about the Colovians, though his mother was a Redguard. She could have forgiven his constant adultery after they proved incompatible if they’d obtained a divorce or he’d had the decency to be _discreet_. He’d told her after stumbling out of Delphine Revanche’s quarters that he was trying to make her get the divorce, because Arius refused to permit him to initiate it. Arius had such a potent mastery of Illusion he could literally frighten a person to death. Sigdrifa considered herself to have a strong will but she feared to test it against the insane mage’s skills.

There was also Callaina to consider. Under Imperial law, the parent who was born in Cyrodiil usually kept the children after a divorce. Rustem was a careless father at best and while Callaina was a sickly child with breathing difficulties no amount of Shieldmaiden exercises could cure, Sigdrifa could hardly leave her in the care of Arius. If they could get across to Skyrim, she could send her to the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun. Life in a temple was soft enough to keep her as healthy as could be managed.

Lavinia died while they waited for Skjor’s return and from the looks of it, Petrus and Justinian would die if a healer didn’t see them soon. Sigdrifa knew some magic, but it was self-healing or lightning spells. Until now, anything else had been useless for what she did.

She was just burying Lavinia when Skjor arrived. “It’s bad,” he said tersely. “The Thalmor marched into Bruma, herded every Nord and Talos worshipper they could find into the Great Chapel and set it on fire. Then they went up to Cloud Ruler Temple and finished the job with the Blades.”

“So the Legion lost at Red Ring?” asked a croaked baritone. So Ulfric had found his voice.

“No,” Skjor said grimly. “They won. But Titus Mede was weakened enough that he signed an agreement called the White-Gold Concordat, banning Talos worship, ceding the southern coast of Hammerfell to the Dominion, and outlawing the Blades.”

“Damn him,” Ulfric rasped. “Nords died for him and he betrayed us!”

Sigdrifa’s mouth tightened. “Petrus and Justinian won’t make it. Lavinia’s already dead.”

Skjor sighed. “We better put them out of their misery. The Thalmor crucified everyone at Cloud Ruler Temple. I saw Arius on the cross myself.”

Sigdrifa paused in drawing her sword. “Did you see any children? Nord, black hair, blue-green eyes, Cyrod nose and complexion?”

The Praetor shook his head. “Only children I saw were Colovian Cyrods. The Thalmor herded the poor things into a pen under a canvas awning in the marketplace and the Temples will apparently take them.”

Sigdrifa closed her eyes. “Not up at Cloud Ruler?”

“No. Irkand told me about Callaina and I went up there to check.” Skjor sighed. “I’m sorry, Sigdrifa. I think she died when the family wing collapsed. It was flatter than the plains of Whiterun.”

Sigdrifa drew her sword and sent the last two Blades to… wherever Blades went when they died. She gave them a prayer to Talos and then widened Lavinia’s grave for all three bodies. Ulfric collected himself enough to help her.

“Your main problem is that the road between Bruma and Cloud Ruler is patrolled,” Skjor continued, his voice carefully even. “They’ve got posters of you, Sigdrifa. The reward is insulting but the description is accurate.”

“Arius did one useful thing in his life,” Sigdrifa told him harshly. “I know where the Serpent’s Trail is. You, Ulfric and I can take it tonight.”

Skjor nodded. “That the Legion stood by and let the Thalmor do that… I’m ashamed of my service.”

Ulfric’s head shot up. “You mean Cloud Ruler fell _after_ the victory was won?”

“Yes.”

The Tongue’s fists clenched. “They deny the god who founded them?”

“Mede’s always been a little wary of the Aurelii and the Blades because of the rumours surrounding the parentage of Julius Martin,” Sigdrifa said flatly. “He gets to save his throne and wash his hands of destroying them should the Madgoddess come calling.”

“Arius was definitely planning something,” Skjor agreed. “Marrying the cousin of the High King of Hammerfell, marrying his son to the Jarl of Falkreath’s daughter, and he himself a relative of the Carvains.”

Sigdrifa snorted bitterly. “He believed himself a Septim with a claim to the Ruby Throne and used his Illusion to convince my father and the High-Mother it was true. Now he is dead, my daughter is dead, and I am a fugitive. For that, I hope he rots in Oblivion.”

Ulfric growled, the sound like distant thunder. “We will not deny Talos and we will avenge the dead. I swear it by my blood and sword.”

Skjor shrugged. “Worry about it when we’re in Skyrim. We have to get there first.”

…

Irkand was exercising in the courtyard of the hospice where the noble wounded of what was being called the Battle of the Red Ring were being tended, his new sword Goldbrand in hand, when Titus Mede summoned him. He followed Mede’s bastard son Maro, the new commander of the Emperor’s personal bodyguard, to the office where the business of repairing the Empire was conducted. Rikke was already there, as was the High Prelate of Arkay.

Mede was mostly recovered from the Bosmer commando attack that left him too injured to actually fight in the Battle of the Red Ring but the signing of the White-Gold Concordat had aged him twenty years. “Irkand,” he said wearily. “How are you healing up?”

“I’ll be back on active duty within a week or so,” Irkand reported. “Were you able to warn Cloud Ruler in time?”

Rikke and Mede exchanged glances. “I only got as far as Bruma,” the newly minted Legate Primus finally said. “Arius had already whipped up the Blades into a rebellion and the Legate of Fort Pale Pass gave the Thalmor Justicars free reign to quell it.”

Irkand, without permission, dropped into the nearest seat. “He did _what_?”

“Got himself, your niece and any number of good, brave people killed because of his delusion that he was a Septim,” Mede said bluntly. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with it, Irkand. You could have let me die when the commandoes attacked and didn’t.”

Callaina, Acilius, Esbern… Irkand had few friends among the Blades because he was the executioner. Callaina had been too young to understand that her uncle was an assassin, Acilius was good enough to not be concerned by Irkand’s skills, and Esbern couldn’t have cared less.

“I would kill him if he wasn’t already dead,” he finally managed to say.

Mede’s smile was sour. “Elenwen and Nurancar did us one favour, I suppose.”

“Titus,” the High Prelate of Arkay chided softly. “That is unworthy of you. It wasn’t just Blades who died but the entire Nord population of Bruma who didn’t immediately renounce Talos. More will die in Skyrim and Hammerfell because neither Nord or Redguard will be able to accept the Concordat easily.”

The Emperor flushed. “Uncle-“

“Don’t.” The High Prelate folded his hands. From the looks of him, he came from the paternal side of Mede’s family, the Breton side. “Irkand saved your life and now his is in danger.”

“I can take out Elenwen and Nurancar before I go to Heaven’s Reach Temple,” Irkand assured the priest.

“I know. But it would be a waste.”

“I’m declaring you Immunitas,” Mede said, signing a piece of parchment. “So long as you renounce Talos worship, you will be spared the Justicars.”

“I’m not overly fond of him anyway,” Irkand admitted. “Have you ever met Sigdrifa? If that’s what emulating Talos is like, I’d rather worship another Aedra.”

“I was at her and Rustem’s wedding, remember?” Mede said dryly. “Rikke, do you think she survived Cloud Ruler?”

“It’s possible. Shieldmaidens aren’t supposed to be sentimentalists and… Irkand, forgive me, but Rustem was a lousy husband,” Rikke replied. “If Sigdrifa wasn’t in the Temple at the time, she’ll retreat to Skyrim and plan something.”

“Rustem is a contemptible person,” Irkand reminded her. Then he glanced at Mede. “My brother?”

“Our reports state he’s getting settled in Hammerfell,” Maro answered. “Will he attempt to avenge Arius?”

“Not likely. He despised our father because he forbade him and Sigdrifa a divorce.” Irkand sighed, blinking back tears. Poor Callaina. Ignored by both parents and now dead. “Knowing him, he’ll pretend nothing ever happened.”

“I might let the Redguards keep him,” Mede said. “I may be able to declare you Immunitas, but I must interdict the Aurelii. Neither you nor he may hold property, office, command or title in Cyrodiil. I’m sorry, Irkand.”

“Which is where I come in,” the High Prelate said quietly. “The Dominion’s invasion not only caused enough social disruption the Synod could not police its own ranks, but Naarifin actively encouraged necromantic covens to set up shop all over Cyrodiil. We lost sixty percent of our Knights of the Circle, Irkand.”

“I’m an assassin, not a Knight,” Irkand told him.

“We need that assassin. Arkay isn’t as hung up about methods as some other Aedra, so long as the job is done.” The High Prelate sighed. “There are about twenty to thirty necromantic covens in Cyrodiil alone. Only Arkay knows what they’re doing in Skyrim and High Rock.”

“Gods…” Irkand breathed.

“If you want to go to Hammerfell, I’ll give you an escort,” Mede said softly. “The interdict only holds in Cyrodiil.”

“No.” Irkand studied the sheathed Goldbrand. “I’m a citizen of the Empire, for what it’s worth. My father made his choices, my brother will make his own, and I must do the same. I mourn Callaina, though. She deserved better.”

“She did. If we’d been able to save her…” Mede sighed. “So you will join the Knights of the Circle?”

“I killed for a man’s ambition. Why would I not kill for a god?”

…

“Damn the Empire. Damn them all.”

For Beroc, a consecrated priest of HoonDing and the third-highest nobleman in Hammerfell, to swear so vehemently meant whatever news had been delivered by the courier was bad. Rustem rested his naginata across his shoulders and sauntered across the courtyard of his daughter’s palatial birch home in Elinhir. That kind of tone indicated someone needed to die – and Rustem was very good at making that happen.

The Lord of Dragonstar glanced up from the scroll. “Good. You’re here. I won’t need to send a manservant to the Rusty Cup this time around.”

“Just send someone who isn’t so stuck up and he’ll be fine,” Rustem pointed out. The Rusty Cup was a rough place, to say the least, but it was popular with the ‘medically discharged’ veterans of the March of Thirst who were on leave. They sold a rough wine but a fine ale imported from Skyrim.

“I’d be inclined to send Titus Mede there and tell the soldiers what he’s done,” Beroc said grimly. “He’s betrayed us and he’s betrayed the Nords.”

They entered the home and were immediately met by Safiya, a delicate Redguard woman whose fine features belied the steely glint in her brown eyes. She was the better parts of Sigdrifa and Delphine combined with a calm acceptance of people that both women lacked. “Sura-Mai’s here,” she said bluntly.

“Of course he is. Titus Mede has soiled himself in the face of the Aldmeri Dominion and is using our honour and that of the Nords to wipe himself,” Beroc answered bluntly.

“That might the politest way I’ve ever heard someone describe the Emperor shitting himself,” Rustem observed. “Is it literal or metaphorical?”

“Both.” Sura-Mai, High King of Hammerfell, emerged from the solar where the weavers worked in more peaceable times. He was softer and younger than Beroc, his maternal uncle, and shared the delicate features of his cousin Safiya. At first glance, he looked like a carpet seller than a king. “Rustem ibn Setareh, where does your allegiance lie?”

“Not with the Empire,” Rustem assured him. “I’m guessing the Dominion ground him down into banning Talos worship, which not only screws the Nords over but puts the Blades in a very bad place.”

“The Blades are dead,” Safiya said softly. “Your father tried to seize the Pale Pass and the Legion commander there allowed the Thalmor to flank Cloud Ruler Temple. All were killed in the brief siege or by crucifixion afterwards. We have no word on your wife but our agent indicated your daughter Callaina is believed dead.”

“That. Fucking. Fool,” Rustem hissed. “That Satakal-damned…”

He mostly remembered Callaina as a big-eyed girl who avoided her mother like the plague because Sigdrifa was trying to make her a warrior when she wanted to be a mage. There had been nebulous plans to remove his father, divorce Sigdrifa so they’d both be the happier for it, and bring Callaina to Elinhir where the drier climate would be good for her lungs and the Mages’ Academy good for her talents. Those plans were done for now.

Sura-Mai looked startled. “You swear by Satakal?”

“I certainly don’t swear by Talos,” Rustem said flatly. “I’ve seen nothing but grief come from the name of Talos.”

Safiya nodded. “You were correct about the worship of Talos being banned. But that isn’t the worst of it. Mede has ceded southern Hammerfell to the Aldmeri Dominion in order to save his throne.”

No wonder Beroc looked ready to tear Mede’s throat out by the teeth.

“We, of course, have no intentions of agreeing to this,” Sura-Mai said gravely. “You are considered the default commander of the Legion veterans who fight alongside us. Do you think they will stand for this?”

“Most of them won’t,” Rustem said, wiping his eyes. Callaina was in the Far Shores, because he didn’t think a sick Nord child would go to Sovngarde – and she’d be miserable besides if she did. “But if we don’t surrender, you know the war will continue, right?”

“We’re counting on it,” Sura-Mai promised. “Now the protection of Cyrodiil is no longer our main concern, we can turn all our forces and attention to removing this elven infection.”

“Alas, most of the Imperial officers in Hammerfell will have tragic deaths at the hands of the elves,” Safiya added. “Some of them may even _die_ at elven hands.”

Rustem managed to drag a smile from the depths. “I doubt I’m here because of my good looks and charming personality.”

“You have those?” Safiya asked.

“You certainly didn’t pick me as your lover because of my fidelity,” he pointed out.

“No. As Lady of Elinhir, I required virility, not fidelity,” was her serene answer.

One thing that Safiya possessed that neither Delphine nor Sigdrifa did not was common sense.

“We have need of you,” Sura-Mai said. “There is a long plan ahead of us. Will your wife be offended if you were to divorce her and formalise your union with Safiya?”

“Sigdrifa? She’ll probably send a thank you note to the wedding, assuming she can escape the Thalmor.” Rustem leaned on his naginata. “But why am I needed? I can do stud duty for an heir.”

“One of my cousins will inherit,” Safiya told him. “But we need to unite the bloodlines of Cyrus the Restless and his sister Iszara. If you need some time to mourn your daughter, I understand. But it must be done in the next few years.”

“The bloodlines of the Hero of Kvatch and the Redguard who told Tiber Septim to go fuck himself,” Rustem said softly. “What are you playing at?”

Beroc’s expression was opaque. “The destruction of the Mede family. Our honour demands no less.”

Rustem smiled thinly. “Satakal swallow the bastard.”

…

Before the war, the Imperial workhouses had been reserved for the indigent, the habitual petty criminal, the hopelessly indebted and the other flotsam of society. Orphans without any other family had been raised by the Temples or in the handful of orphanages in the major cities. Despite everything going wrong in the provinces, Cyrodiil itself had been too efficient and organised to waste even a single pair of hands.

After the war, Sister Mercy of the Benevolence of Mara reflected as she arrived to collect the orphans of what was already being called the Bruma Purge, the workhouses were already filling with survivors of the Great War who might never be productive members of society due to their traumas. Half of them were being turned into orphanages for the massive influx of kinless children and adolescents who needed to put to _some_ use if Cyrodiil was to survive the next decade.

Mercy was a Khajiit, the orphaned cub of bandits raised in an orphanage before being sent to the Temple at the age of sixteen because she had no talent for war, magic or bureaucracy. She never bothered herself about how her life would have been different if her parents had been honest people, she had a knack for child-rearing and she never ruffled any feathers. So the High Prelate had dispatched her here to rescue the orphans from the Justicars before they could be traumatised further.

Only one Justicar stood by where the children were being kept. He was bulkier and rounder-faced than most Altmer but his robes were gilt-trimmed black velvet, sign of his high status among the Dominion forces. “I want you to know this wasn’t any of my idea,” he told Mercy as she approached. “I’ve given the children a couple decent meals and new sackcloth tunics, but my superiors insisted they stay in the pen.”

“That does not make it better,” Mercy said disgustedly.

“No, it doesn’t,” agreed the Justicar. “Give them as much of Mara’s love as you can, Sister. They’ll need it.”

“A Justicar believes in Mara?”

“Not all of us are monsters, just as not all Khajiit are thieves,” was his quiet response.

One by one, the children marched out in sullen silence, counted and noted by Mercy and the Justicar. There were eleven when she was told there were ten. The Justicar followed her gaze to the last one, a girl who was taller than the rest with the most astonishing pair of blue-green eyes.

“She hid until it was over,” the Justicar said quietly. “That is why there are eleven.”

Mercy nodded. A credible explanation. “Does she have a name?”

“Laina. Laina South-Wind.”


End file.
